


A Lifetime Of Adventure

by Nunchuckle



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2018-12-15 07:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11801229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nunchuckle/pseuds/Nunchuckle
Summary: "To be rich is to still remember, to treasure your first dime, to have a chance to say farewell."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the new Ducktales series. 
> 
> Title is from Tuomas Holopainen's song from his album "Music Inspired By The Life and Times Of Scrooge".

You’re old.

It’s the first time it really sinks in; you still feel the same, the same gnawing hunger for exploration and danger still sparks from time to time.

What usually follows is the depression and the sparks, immediately, fade into ember.

You couldn’t save _her_.

You’ve moved literal mountains, found lost civilizations, tangled and tossed with what could only be described as actual gods.

You’ve saved and scrimped and turned your thirst for knowledge and adventure into a trillion dollar empire.

And it finally dawns on you that you’re an old, washed up has-been who has successfully alienated every single person who would stay with you without getting paid.

Beakley doesn’t count; she’s more here because of her granddaughter. You even consider giving her a raise but the look of pity she gives you is enough to anger you and take back the decision.

Launchpad has only been here a little over a year and even _he’s_ starting to back off with his attempts to befriend you.

You’re old.

And you have a trillion dollar empire that you’re willing to burn to the ground if only it would bring her back.

But it won’t; you tried, of course you tried – you searched for relics; ancient and unholy, with power not meant for mortal eyes, power over life and death themselves.

More often than not, people seemed all too glad to pay _you_ to keep the cursed things.

Donald wouldn’t stand for it.

You called him blind and stupid at the time and you still remember the way he looked at you; not the burning anger he’s so very much acquainted with, not even the endless grief that threatened to consume him whole those first few weeks when you (yes, _you_ , don’t ever convince yourself otherwise) lost her.

He looked at you like he didn’t know you. Like he’d never risked life and limb to save you countless times (more than you would ever admit to his face), like _you’d_ never done the same for him over and over.

He screamed at you to stop; that it was pointless and the only way he was going to be able to move on was if you would too.

Life and adventures would go on; but no more searching for ways to bring her back.

No more searching for Della.

You called him a coward.

He doesn’t say anything and leaves.

You don’t speak for years.

You’re old.

It’s getting harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself, even if you would never say it out loud.

You still get cards for you birthday and Christmas. There’s even the odd attempt at reconciliation, promises to get together for lunch or dinner sometime.

But the wound is still too fresh; you find that out when Beakley does some spring cleaning and finds an old painting you commissioned.

You cancel dinner with your nephew – you make a big show of being too busy, too important to make time with him.

He doesn’t even sound disappointed over the phone, almost like he expected it. The irrational surge of anger you felt at that was enough for you to call him a deadbeat.

You wanted to hear him call you a bastard to your face, what a failure of an adventurer you are and an even greater failure as an uncle.

Donald doesn’t; he doesn’t ever seem to get angry anymore these days and it’s, frankly, unnerving.

You don’t speak again for years. The cards stop coming. The cheques you still kept sending now kept coming back unopened so you stop sending them. 

You were Scrooge McDuck.

You were tougher than the toughies, smarter than the smarties.

And you were, for a time, the richest duck in the whole world.

But now…

You’re old.

At least you have money. 


	2. Chapter 2

Beakley’s granddaughter reminds you so much of Della it sometimes hurts to look at her.

You make it a point to avoid conversation with her; you settle for curt nods and mono-syllabic responses to her endless queries.

_“Did you really find the Loch Ness monster’s lair?”_

Yes.

_“Is Bigfoot real?”_

Yes.

It goes on and on and _on_ …until she asks if The Duck Twins were every bit as incredible as she’s heard they were.  

“ _I heard that Della Duck was one of the most fearless pilots in the world and Donald Duck is a master of the seas!”_

You look at her blankly. You want to say that they were all that and so much more – but then you remember that one of them is presumed dead and the other one hasn’t spoken to you in years.

You shrug, not even mustering the strength for an answer either way.

She stops asking questions after that.

Time passes and that spark you used to have is fading.

Nothing excites you anymore.

Beakley makes a few attempts to get you to at least do something, _anything_ , that gets you out of the manor – a new civilization to be found or a lost language to be deciphered.

“… _heard there was some unknown creature running loose in St. Canard. They started calling it Dark Wing, might be worth a look. You haven’t had a new species named after you in quite a while.”_

You scoff and tell her it’s probably just some lunatic in a cape.

It takes an awful lot to get Beakley angry, yet you can see that even she is starting to lose her patience.

_“Well, whatever this Dark Wing is, it’s been causing quite a stir. Crime is reportedly at an all-time low in that city and its apparently because this thing has been crippling mob bosses and beating their henchmen within an inch of their lives every single night. Are you saying you’re not even the least bit interested in this?”_

You puff up your chest and tell her that whatever is going on in St. Canard is beneath you – you’re the great Scrooge McDuck after all and some back-alley rumor isn’t going to get you up in arms.

You tell yourself that lie so expertly that even you believe it to some degree.


	3. Chapter 3

You never really believed in second chances.

That was part of the thrill of adventure and exploration, after all; you’ve got one chance, one shot.

“Would you capture it? Or just let it slip?”

You find yourself smiling at the unusually wise words from Dewey, who began snickering and started rapping about spaghetti, of all things.

“What’s so blasted funny?” You look at Beakley for answers but only get an eyeroll in return.

Donald is looking sternly at his three nephews, now _your_ three (three!) grand-nephews; to your eternal surprise, the boys actually quiet down and look contrite.

You don’t really believe in second chances, but then again a _lot_ of what kept you going on exploration after exploration, on trek after trek was blind, stupid, simple, clueless _faith_.

Donald is the most surprising of all; there’s still hints of his infamously volatile disposition, but also a strange calm and stillness to him.

It’s a little disconcerting to see him still wearing the black variation of his uniform; he’d stopped wearing the light blues a little over a decade ago, exactly a year after Della.

He smiles at you, and the shame you feel is atrocious; the same admiration and respect is still there, tempered by sharp caution.

His eyes say everything; _I’m willing to trust you again. Don’t let me down. Don’t let us down._

You grip your cane tightly and give him a tilt of your hat.

Blind faith – neither of you ever really lost it, did you?

The same hurt that used to consume you whenever you would look at Webby is now a strange mix of pride and nostalgia, multiplied three-fold when you look at the boys.

You see yourself in Huey’s cleverness, resourcefulness and the slight obsession with things being _just_ so; you feel your heart swelling when you find out he’s a Junior Woodchuck, just as you were in your youth.

Dewey’s headstrong boisterousness brings you back to your teenage years; every stupid stunt you ever pulled, you could easily see Dewey trying to emulate in some bigger, more dangerous way and this is why he’s the first of the nephews you deemed worthy of a scolding. There’s also a resemblance to Donald there, that need to prove oneself, even with odds stacked against you.

Louie brought you back to the time you hustled an entire tribe of cannibals into trading their sacred idol for a can of beans – a fine line between utter stupidity and bewildering courage, hidden by just the right amount of indifference.

“You alright?”

You turn to Donald and it hits you how much you’ve missed him.

You choose to believe in a second chance. Why? Who knew…that was just the way faith worked.

“Never better lad.”

 

 

* * *

 

BONUS CHAPTER: Darkest Before Dawn

 

Television was one of those things you never quite got.

Why in the world would you watch _other_ people doing exciting things when you could be out there doing them yourself?

The kids seemed to like it though, and the more entertained they were, the better you could prepare for the next excursion without Dewey rattling off which locations he wanted to visit or Huey stressing out about supplies for the trip.

“Uncle Scrooge! Come on and watch with us!”

You ruffle Dewey’s hair and squint at the TV. Instead of the usual fare of gigantic robots fighting other giant robots or the odd adventure about a costumed superhero, the kids, Donald and even Beakley seemed transfixed on a news story.

“What’s all this about?” you ask, taking a seat on one of the sofas.

“Just the trial of the century!” squawks Donald, munching on a handful of popcorn. “I can’t believe they actually managed to arrest _the_ Taurus Bulba!” 

You’ve heard of him – Bulba was a polarizing figure in Duckburg and was outright viewed as no less than a Mafia don in Saint Canard.

**_“Mr. Bulba – Taurus – you’re wasting everyone’s time here. I mean, I’m not exactly saying anything new here when I point out that this supposed star witness of yours is a known embezzler and con-artist as well?”_ **

You smirk as you watch the prosecuting attorney, a dog dressed in a sharp suit, elicit nervous buzzing from the crowd.

“He’s got balls.” Dewey whispers, earning a sharp look from Donald. “Well, he does!”

“Well, they don’t call Bud Flud _“The Liquidator”_ for nothing.” Webby rocked back and forth on the floor, hugging her knees, a bundle of nervous energy. “They say Bulba’s already paid off all the cops in the SCPD and he _still_ agreed to prosecute!”

Huey tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Why’s Bulba’s witness doing his testimony via video chat? All the way from Cape Suzette? Is that even allowed?”

“Maybe he’s avoiding someone,” Dewey paused for effect. “…or _something._ ”

Huey rubbed the bridge of his bill and sighed. “I swear, if this is about Dark Wing again…”

“Crime’s at an all-time low in Saint Canard! You’re saying all those criminals and crooked cops just decided to clean up their act out of the goodness of their hearts?”

“Are _you_ saying that you think that’s somehow less plausible than some winged cryptid going around beating criminals at night?”

“Guys!” Webby said as she turned up the TV. “Bulba’s about to call his witness!”

You all watch transfixed at the screen; the large bull, Bulba, is calm amidst the frenzied atmosphere of the courtroom – he looks equal parts annoyed, as if being tried for multiple accounts of money-laundering, drug and weapons trafficking and murders-for-hire is a mere inconvenience. There’s a languid smugness to his movement as he taps on the tablet held in front of him.

**_“Kingston? It’s Taurus. Can we get on with this ridiculous show already and prove my innocence? I have a flight to catch.”_ **

More hushed murmurs from the courtroom as some shuffling is heard from the tablet.

**_“Kingston, it seems you have a bad connection. Are you there, old boy?”_ **

There’s a hush among the crowd as the screen, projected onto a screen beside the courtroom, comes into view. It shows someone tied to a chair, clearly unconscious.

On a table beside him, there’s a tape recorder, playing a familiar song.

_Every breath you take_   
_Every move you make_   
_Every bond you break_   
_Every step you take_   
_I'll be watching you_

_Every single day_   
_Every word you say_   
_Every game you play_   
_Every night you stay_   
_I'll be watching you_

The tape recorder starts to skip as the figure bound on the chair starts to awaken.

… _I’ll be watching you…I’ll be watching you…I’ll be watching you…I’ll be watching you…I’ll be watching you…_

Taurus Bulba’s face is a sight to behold – he turns a sheen of volcanic red as Kingston, his witness begins to sob.

**_“Mr. Bulba…sir…I’m so sorry…please…help me…he got me…”_ **

The video call cuts off as the courtroom falls into a confused hush.

The silence is mirrored both in the courtroom and in your living room. Donald’s obnoxious munching has ceased and the children are staring transfixed at the screen.

You watch Dewey wordlessly pull a crisp 50 dollar bill from his jacket and hand it slowly to an unblinking Donald.

“Wha--?” Donald startles, taking the bill from his nephew.

“Swear jar, Uncle Donald. Because holy _fucking shit_.”


End file.
